Ripley's Saint

by Isabel Wroth

  “Quit waiving that around in here with your finger on the trigger, dickhead.”

  They started bickering about Frankie’s trigger finger and Ripley called Nasa back.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you answer your phone?” the humongous biker barked at her in greeting.

  Ripley turned away and lowered her voice. “I’m sorry. Saint was explaining to me why he was uncomfortable with me leaving the house to go to the store, and I texed you back, except I didn’t actually hit the SEND button. I’m sorry, everything is fine. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

  “You sound like you’ve been cryin. You okay?”

  “Yes and no. I, um, we need groceries. Who do I talk to about that?”

  “Text me your list and someone will be by in two hours to deliver it. You sure you’re alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Don’t turn your phone off again or I’m going to assume you’re in serious trouble and send in the cavalry.”

  Nasa hung up without saying goodbye. Ripley shook her head as she pulled the box of tampons from inside her purse to snap a photo of, sending it along with her list of things she needed.

  Day four of Saint being home from the hospital started off really well.

  Ripley had woken up before him and gone to take a shower in the guest bath so she didn’t wake him. Then moved into the kitchen with the need to make something sweet. Remembering Nasa’s request, she started to make the crust for lemon bars and was in the process of pouring the filling into the pan when Saint shuffled into the kitchen looking mad as hell.

  Then he saw her standing there in her favorite pink polka dot apron and the steely glint in his eyes faded to a soft gleam. He didn’t say anything until he was up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. His kiss cruising across her cheek while he watched her spread the warm lemon mix into the pan.

  “Don’t do that again.” his voice was still rough and thick from sleep.

  Ripley tilted her head to give him the access he was asking for with his mouth on her throat. “Do what?”

  “Leave the bed without waking me up.”

  “You need the rest, Saint.”

  “I need to not wake up and start my day pissed off because I’m expecting to find you next to me and you’re not.” She felt him turn his nose to her hair and could hear the frown in his voice when he declared, “Done taking the pain meds.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You took a shower and I didn’t hear it.” The hard edge to his tone suggested he was blaming himself for not having woken up, no doubt thinking the slight haze caused by his medication had kept him from being alert not only to the feel of her leaving the bed, but dull to the sound of her showering as well.

  “I was very careful not to wake you up when I left the bed and I showered in the guest bathroom so you wouldn’t hear it.”

  He gave a heavy sigh and nuzzled his face deeper into her hair. “Don’t do it again.”

  “Okay.”

  Day five, she and Saint had gone back to Escape Reality to view the progress made by the contractors and insurance agents.

  She hadn’t realized how nervous she was about it until Saint pushed open the door and led her in, frowning down at her as he asked her if she was alright. Ripley noticed she had been clinging to his hand with both of hers and looking around a bit too quickly, worried that some gunman might come screaming down the street again in a hail of flying bullets. She had asked this morning if Saint had any news on who had been responsible. If he knew why her spa had been shot to hell.

  “No one is outright claiming it. Any enemies we have in the area have voluntarily reached out to assure Perdition that they weren’t responsible.”

  His response hadn’t been as comforting as Ripley was sure Saint thought it was. If the enemies Perdition had in the area weren’t responsible, it made perfectly logical sense that it was an enemy outside the area.

  Because Ripley certainly didn’t have any enemies, at least not the kind who would do a drive-by shooting through the very populated area of downtown Austin to wreck her business.

  The police were still investigating, but one of the detectives had called her with an update to say no progress had been made in identifying the shooters. Which made no sense, because you couldn’t get from one block to the next in downtown Austin in a giant SUV going warp speed without hitting a red light, or running over a hipster.

  She’d asked the detective how that speeding SUV hadn’t been caught on traffic cameras. He had sounded mightily embarrassed to inform her that section of the city’s CCTV cameras had been under construction for some time now. Also, white SUV’s were a dime a dozen in Texas.

  Standing in the foyer of her business, Ripley couldn’t help the wave of apprehension that slithered down her spine. She didn’t feel safe here, but literally everything she had was tied up in this business. Sure, there was a good chunk of her insurance money to be had, but most of that would just be going right back into the repairs. So she couldn’t count on that.

  And who would want to come here to receive a facial or to have their glam pin-up shots taken in a place easily attacked in a drive-by? It would take her months to rebuild her clientele. Months she might not have.

  Ripley hadn’t thought about it, or realized how much stress that would add to her already stressed out system, until she’d stepped foot inside the building. The contractor Nasa had hired was so enormous, Ripley had an unkind thought about how he was able to bend down to do any of the work without his coveralls busting open from the strain.

  Jerry seemed nice enough, much kinder and seemingly more competent than he had been on the phone. Though he could have been intimidated by Saint’s presence and the glower fixed firmly on his face. Whatever it was, Ripley didn’t care. So long as Jerry got the job done.

  He kind of looked like a brunette Santa, his fleshy jowls covered in a borderline grotesque beard. His small crew of four other workers were so much shorter and thinner than Jerry, they kind of resembled elves. Jerry’s beefy paws were sweaty when he folded her palm up between both his hands, shaking earnestly with kind words and assurances he would have her place back up to snuff in no time at all.

  Jerry made Ripley uncomfortable for some reason, though she had no one exact thing to explain why.

  Saint seemed satisfied with the work being done and asked her if she wanted anything done differently. He stayed with her and held her hand while she walked around to look at the progress. Her belly flipped and twisted when she saw the patch of concrete floor beside the coffee bar that had been bleached and buffed down.

  The spot where Gee’s blood had stained the white floor a rusty red.

  Ripley drew in an unsteady breath and let Saint pull her up under his arm, nodding when he asked if she was okay.

  “Yeah. Can we go see Gee?”

  Saint’s eyes softened with instant adoration. “Absolutely.”

  *****

  Saint watched from the hall as Ripley sat beside Gee, her small hand curled around the sleeping brother’s while she read some romance novel to him about aliens off her phone. Saint stood out in the hall with Top, trying to focus on what the Prez was saying.

  It was only five days since he’d been in a bed like that. Saint couldn’t help but wonder if Ripley had read alien romance novels to him while he’d been unconscious. If she had, she hadn’t done it when anyone else was around, otherwise he’d be getting hell from the club.

  “I need you to take over managing the Box.”

  That sure as shit got his attention. Saint tore his gaze off his woman and looked at Top with an incredulous scoff, certain he had misheard.

  “Are you serious? You’re benching me and sending me to the Box?”

  The Velvet Box had been Susan’s baby and the few times Saint had been in trouble, or on Top’s shit list, he’d had to help out with security at the door. But…take over? Ripley was going to have his balls if he started working nights managing a strip club.

>   In that moment, Saint realized he had joined Raid and Roar, totally pussywhipped. Damn.

  Top grunted as he shoved his hands up under his armpits, taking a wide stance while his beard jutted out and he stared at where Gee was still sunk deep in his coma. The kid’s brain had quit swelling and his scans were good, improving enough that the doctors had started to wean him off the drugs keeping him in a coma. But it was a big fat question mark when the prospect would wake up.

  “I’m not benching you. I’m also not pullin Ruckus outta here to pick up the slack we’re feelin. You’re healing and have a few more weeks to go before you’re back on your game. Don’t even open your mouth to bullshit me.”

  He and the Prez engaged in a staring contest, but Saint wasn’t at a hundred percent yet. Breathing and moving still hurt like hell.

  “I’ve been shot in the gut before and I can’t believe you’re even standing upright, twelve days after surgery. Raid is with Roar, the kids, and the women constantly. Nasa’s up to his eyeballs in trying to track our Ghost, dealing with all the other shit that takes computers to deal with.

  “The Box has internet and phones, so you can help him out with that too. Meeks is out hittin the pavement with Pen, tryin to find where the fuck that SUV that shot up Ripley’s place went to. Trackin down the shooters. Frankie and Milo are watchin your back, swapping places with Damon and Toad to run the Box and keep our other assets in play.

  “Cept every time one of those twiggy bitches Susie used to take care of goes cryin to Toad about the dumbest shit, he lets them go home for the night rather than deal with it. Two of the waitresses have quit because the strippers are tryin to take over or turn that place upside down with drama.

  “I don’t even care. Until I can find someone who wants to buy that piece of shit, or someone we can trust to run the place, I need you in there to handle it. The strippers hate your guts and know better than to try and offer to suck your dick to get out of work. Milo and Frankie will stay with Ripley when you’re not there. She’ll be safe.”

  Saint could hear the emotion Top covered up by being gruff and rude when he talked about the strippers, but they both knew Top wouldn’t sell the Box. He’d burn it to the ground before he sold it because that had been Susan’s place. And through Pike, Susan had been family.

  It had been Susie’s idea to open up the strip club, as cliché as it was for a biker club to own and operate a titty bar. Having once been a stripper herself, Susan understood the business inside and out. Pike had offered to buy the place and let Susie do it up however she wanted, but being the independent woman she was, Susan had approached Top with a business plan and asked for a loan.

  Saint had been there when Susan had laid it all down for Top. He remembered the pie charts, food and drink menus, the uniforms the waitresses would wear, theme nights. Susan had even thought about how to bring more business in by offering dance classes on Monday mornings for bored housewives who wanted to spice things up in the bedroom, turning the slowest day of the week into one of the more profitable, proving she had had way more brains under that bottle blonde hair of hers than anyone thought.

  Hell, that woman had been a shark, evident by the profit The Velvet Box had generated. Three months of earnings at the strip club would have been enough to keep Perdition comfortable for a year if they suddenly ran out of PI gigs.

  Saint pulled his hand down his face with a ragged groan, throwing a look into the hospital room at Ripley.

  “Ripley won’t like this.”

  Top gave a mirthless chuckle. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “No, no. I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Saint bit back a hiss as the surprise of Ripley appearing beside him out of nowhere made his stomach clench. Which shot a white-hot streak of pain off behind his eyes, but the second her soft little hand caught his, somehow the pain just melted away. He stood there a second staring down at her in her nearly skin-tight pink dress and those damn heels he spent many hours envisioning around his ears.

  Her makeup was understated but intensely sexy, her hair curled and coiffed to pin-up perfection. Saint looked at her and wondered if he was going to ever lose the feeling a glance from her brought him. There was the strangest comfort in her touch, something he hadn’t ever experienced before. Not once in his life.

  It took him by surprise, how willing he was to say no to Top if managing a strip club while he continued to heal up would upset Ripley. When she wiggled his hand a little and her eyebrows shot up expectantly, Saint realized he’d been staring.

  Saint tested the waters. Eased into it, just in case. “Top is asking me to manage one of the club’s side rackets.”

  “That’s great. You’ve been going stir-crazy at home.” Ripley replied. Not realizing the blow she’d dealt him.

  Home.

  Did she even realize what she had said? Did she mean it in a passing, casual sort of way? Calling it ‘home’ out of habit? Or was she implying her home was his home? Because he certainly had enjoyed the domestic bliss of waking up to his woman making breakfast barefoot every morning for the past week.

  Probably made him some kind of chauvinist, but Ripley in the kitchen with a smile on her face and a black ceramic mug she had bought just for him filled up with his coffee just the way he liked it while she sipped her jasmine pearls tea…it made him feel like he belonged.

  He lived at the compound, his room no bigger than the average college dorm, with a bunch of sad sack bachelors who drank the world’s shittiest coffee and survived off the scraps Athena and Ever were willing to bring them. Like strays at the pound. Sure, Saint had family and he knew he belonged with them. He knew his brothers had his back no matter what and, in turn, they knew they could call him day or night no matter what and he would be there.

  But they didn’t throw around the word ‘home’ and make Saint feel it in his bones.

  Top must have felt like Saint was dragging his ass because he snorted, “It’s the strip club Susan opened up a few years back. I don’t have anyone to spare and the strippers all hate Saint because he’s a hardass. If I had someone else, believe me, princess, I’d be asking them.”

  Saint held his breath while they waited for Ripley to react. Her brows furrowed together and Saint was sure she was going to blow a gasket.

  “I assume this will be a night time thing?”

  Saint frowned, wondering why she didn’t sound upset, so much as concerned.

  “Yup.” Top grunted, beard jutting out a little bit as he fought to keep a straight face.

  “When will Saint be sleeping?”

  It blew his mind that Ripley wasn’t concerned about herself, about who would be with her if Saint wasn’t around. She was concerned about when he would be sleeping. Saint couldn’t keep himself from squeezing Ripley’s hand and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  “He’ll be on shift from noon till two am. Milo and Frankie will be in your living room while he’s gone. We’ll give it a week and re-evaluate then.”

  Ripley pressed her lips together, her only outward signal to say she wasn’t good with this plan. Saint opened his mouth to tell her he wasn’t doing it, but she took a deep breath and nodded, narrowing her eyes at Top seriously.

  “If something happens to him, you can forget the weekly cookie delivery.”

  Saint wasn’t sure he could love Ripley any more right then. It hurt like hell, but the look of shock on Top’s face was priceless, and Saint couldn’t have held in his laughter if he’d tried.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ripley hated the job Top had given to Saint. Absolutely hated it.

  But Saint had been an unbearable asshole as the days had wore on and he had nothing to do but sit around and yell at people on the phone. Pacing around like a caged lion when he was supposed to be taking it easy. Calling his contacts, people who owed him favors, and the detectives trying to solve the drive-by. Anyone Saint could get information from by flaying the skin from their bodies with some of the mo
st colorful profanity combos Ripley had ever heard.

  She liked it even less that she didn’t go to sleep curled up beside Saint, but she did wake up to him crawling into bed with her around three am. It was the third day into the seven-day start Top had promised and her curiosity had gotten the better of her.

  Ripley was currently walking into The Velvet Box for the second time, and was honestly hoping no one recognized her from her foray with Sam on Ladies Night. Hoping if they did, they wouldn’t be mentioning it to Saint. Because of course they had to have gone to the only strip club in Austin owned by Saint’s club. And until Frankie had pulled up tonight and explained that to her, Ripley hadn’t had any idea.

  Memories came rolling back, things she had forgotten after having gotten so drunk last time.

  It was definitely a strip club, that was obvious in the way the women strutting on stage wore little more than some dental floss up their butts, or if they were modest, some pasties covering their nipples while they gyrated to the loud music. But it was actually quite a contemporary space of black, leather-like armchairs, oversized armchairs situated at gleaming black, marble tables.

  She remembered liking the set up. Last time all the servers had been male, and the customers packed in the Velvet Box had been female, so it was interesting to see the reverse.

  The waitresses who moved around serving beer, cocktails, and the occasional basket of chicken wings, were wearing tasteful yet provocative black velvet bodysuits. Some had garters holding up their thigh high stockings, others didn’t, but the only skin showing was the cutout for their ample cleavage, a strip of thigh, and their arms. Otherwise they were perfectly covered.

  It might have been the lighting, but Ripley didn’t see a single one of the waitresses or the strippers with the stereotypical meth mouth or a bunch of track marks. In fact, all the women were…really gorgeous.